


I'm In Love With My Car

by autumn_soldier, fandomimaginesforall



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018)
Genre: F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 21:59:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17836904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumn_soldier/pseuds/autumn_soldier, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomimaginesforall/pseuds/fandomimaginesforall
Summary: Getting fingered by Queen drummer Roger Meddows Taylor in the back of his 1960s Morris Mini Minor





	I'm In Love With My Car

_“When I'm holding your wheel, a_ _ll I hear is your gear.”_

Your hands are on his belt loops, using the fabric to guide him up on top of you, stroking along the curve that makes his back. His moans are in your mouth, the melody of his desire between your teeth. Roger’s tongue tastes of whiskey, likely as does yours.

“Next time me and the lads schedule a press interview,” he says between kisses, “I’m definitely looking out for the cute intern. You were nearly a missed opportunity, Y/N.”

“Good thing I’m clumsy,” you smile, fumbling your way out of your clothes. Spirits numb your ability to do so quickly, but that only fuels your shared giggles.

Indeed, it had been a pretty chance encounter. You’d been following Queen’s work for a while, and before you knew it, they’d overtaken the world of music. After their drummer had asked for a drink, you’d promptly emptied the thing over him, and by the time you’d gotten his attention, it was all over. He’d already asked you back to his car.

“I’m sorry you’re missing the interview.”

“Please, there’ll be others. But there’s only one of you.”

_“Get a grip on my boy racer rollbar, such a thrill when your radials squeal!”_

It’s pretty cramped in the backseat of Roger’s Morris Minor, and your time is short before the others come to see where you’d gone; but there isn’t the typical urgency that comes with a clandestine shag. In this situation, worst case scenario is that the rest of the band could walk in on you with your trousers down. The mere idea has you hot.

“You’re sure this is alright?” he checks, pulling back a moment, lips bite-swollen, hair a mess. 

You cock a brow, pulling him back by the collar of his shirt. “You’re not the only one who likes the odd fuck,” you tell him, grinning. “I’m no innocent, Roger Taylor. I’ve stared at the roof of a car before. Or, sometimes it’s the crawl space I’m staring at.”

He returns to the kisses, letting you tear off his shirt, exposing the wide plane of his chest.

“Damn.” You can’t repress your reaction to him. He more than deserved the role as the hot drummer of Queen.

He lowers his kisses to your neck, down towards your chest. Your legs lift to hook around his waist, pulling him in as he adorns your clavicle with a necklace of bite-marks.

A finger breaches you, (just one?!) and your heat swallows it whole, needing more, craving more. His hot mouth roams over your chest as his thumb finds your clit, and he’s taking a nipple in his teeth.

“You’re pretty good with your fingers,” you compliment him around gasps, near-dizzy. “D-deft..”

“I’m a drummer, and a fucking good one.”

His belt buckle jingles as his jeans slip down. The very sound of it weakens your knees.

_‘When I'm cruisin' in overdrive, don't have to listen to no run of the mill talk jive...’_

“I love this song,” you groan, reaching for his length to begin slow, hot strokes. Roger leans over you, like your ministrations produced an electric current. “It’s my favourite on ‘Night at the Opera’.”

“The others barely let me put it on the B-side, you know,” he tells you, speaking in whispers into your hair.

“Those bastards.”

“I know.”

Your world explodes in lyrics and metaphor as his fingers finish you.


End file.
